Friday, November 30, 2007

LeftLion #20 - Out NOW! NOW NOW NOW!

FREE Notts Xmas decorations
The A-Z of Nottingham Hip-Hop
Cappo
Neville Staple of The Specials
The return of Miles Hunt
Shopping in Notts
Dominic Minghella
Loay Hady

Plus May Contain Notts, A Canadian In New Basford, two months of Nottingham listings and all the usual features. Available in all the pubs and bars in the city centre worth a toss tonight, and all the other shoppy places from Monday.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Nottingham Education #2: The Accent

(I wrote this for some student mag last month. Seeing as I didn't get paid for it, and because there are so many twatty youths in the city who are currently spurning their native tongue in favour of trying to talk like somebody from Brixton after a brain haemorrage, I see no reason not to print it here...)

The Nottingham accent is weird. For one, only half the people in the city actually talk like that, as people who live south of the Trent sound like they come from the Home Counties. For two, it’s the most difficult British accent to get right (which is why they never bother with it in any production of Robin Hood, especially the current one. And we won’t even talk about Kevin Costner’s attempt in Prince Of Thieves, which got him laughed out of the UK premiere).

If you want to learn Notts As She Is Spoken (and you should, because it opens a lot of doors, mainly the ones in clubs and late-night bars), you need to learn the following ground rules;

1. WE’RE NOT NORTH. WE’RE NOT SOUTH. WE’RE NOT EVEN MIDLANDS. WE’RE EAST MIDLANDS

Attempting a standard Northern accent is not going to cut it – the Notts dialect is far too subtle for that. And although we’re in the Midlands, our accent bears no relation whatsoever to the Birmingham one. Moral of the story – attempt to wing it, and you’ll come a cropper.

2. DON’T BOTHER LISTENING TO LOCAL MEDIA FOR GUIDANCE

Trying to find a local accent on the radio or telly is as pointless as looking for a pound shop in Knightsbridge.

3. WE MIX BOTH NORTHERN AND SOUTHERN ACCENTS IN THE SAME SENTENCES

In other words, we combine harsh Northern vowel sounds with drawn-out Southern ones, and then snip off a few vowels or add new ones for good measure. It’ll take a lifetime to master it, but here are a few examples;

Northern

Notts

Southern

Up (‘Oop’)

Shirt (‘Shot’)

Down (‘Daahn’)

Bath (‘Baff’)

Work (‘Wok’)

Out (‘Aht’)

Just (‘Joost’)

Home (‘Om)

Sound (‘Saahnd’)

Must (‘Moost’)

Take (‘Tek’)

Town (’Taahn’)

Ergo, a sentence such as “I was about to have a bath before going to town, but realised my shirt was dirty, so I went out to buy a new one” is pronounced “I wor joost abaaht ter tek a baff after wok before gooin’ dahn tahn, but it wor dotteh, so I went aht ter gerra new’un. It’s saahnd as a paahnd!”

4. REPLACE WORDS THAT END IN ‘Y’ AND ‘IE’ WITH ‘EH’

If you learn nothing else, this is the rule to live by. You don’t go to Rock City to take in a gig; you go to Rock Citeh to see . Your best mate is not called Julie; she’s called Juleh. You’re not studying at a place of Higher Learning; you’re at Uneh. Quite possibly doing a Joint Honours in Istreh and Sociologeh. Maybe living in Strelleh. Doing a part-time job in Ockleh to mek some extra munneh so you can afford a season ticket at Notts Caanteh. The Nottingham version of ‘The Rain In Spain Lies Mainly On The Plain’ is ‘Toneh Adleh Aht O’ Spandaah Balleh’. Repeat it, in the mirror, at least five times before going out in the morning.

5. A BRIEF TERMINOLOGEH

A full list of words peculiar to Nottinghamshire would take up pages and pages and pages, so here are the most essential;

  1. ‘DUCK’
    (‘Dook’) - Term of endearment, regardless of gender or sexuality. In other words, don’t be offended if you’re a strapping Sports student and the bus driver calls you ‘duck’. ‘Duckeh’ can also be used, but only with people you’re particularly close to. Eg: ‘Ayup, me duck’
  2. ‘YOUTH’
    (Yooerth’) – A (mainly male) term of endearment, regardless of age. In other words, if the same bus driver calls you ‘youth’, he’s not casting aspersions on your perceived lack of life experience; he’ll probably call the bloke behind you whose just collected his pension the same thing. Eg: ‘That Yooerth over there wants to flog his iPod’
  3. ‘SUCKY’
    (‘Sookeh’) – Nothing to do with Bevis or Butthead: it’s a disparaging term that calls someone’s intelligence into question. Known in the South as a ‘Plum’, and the North as a ‘Soft Lad’, said person is a bit thick, but in a fairly benign way (if he was outright insane, he’d be Batcheh’). Eg: ‘That Yooerth ovver there only wants a tenner for his iPod – he must be right Suckeh’
  4. ‘COB’
    The local equivalent of a bap, roll, baguette, etc.
  5. ‘CHELP’
    One of the few terms used by DH Lawrence still in existence today. It’s a catch-all term for back-chat, insubordination, etc. Eg: ‘Andeh gen the landlord some right chelp abaaht fixin’ the cooker, so he’s kickin’ us aht’
  6. ‘SNAP’
    Food of any description, which is best consumed when you’re Clammin’ (i.e., hungry). If you’ve got some cobs in a Tupperware box, congratulations – you’re in possession of a Snap Tin.
  7. ‘CHATTY’
    (‘Chatteh’) – Not a description of your ability to talk at length: more a critique of your personal hygiene. It also means you’re extremely Crufteh. Eg – ‘I’ve got to clean up me ‘aase before me Mam visits – she’ll goo Batcheh when she sees how Chatteh it is’
  8. ‘DEZZIE’
    (‘Dezzeh’) – nothing to do with South Indian culture: it’s a description originated in Notts in the 1980s, after Des O’Connor, which casts aspersions on one’s sense of style and fashion. Eg – ‘Ugh! Aah lecturer was in Rock Citeh wearing a tank top over a Spice Girls t-shirt! He looked WELL Dezzeh!”
  9. ‘ONE-O’
    A phrase of indeterminate origin that describes maximum effort and (in some cases) excess. If you bust a gut running for the last bus, overindulge at the SU bar, partake in a 48-hour revision binge, or pursuing a member of the opposite sex, you’re on it like One-O. Eg – ‘This youth in aah year is a right Keeno – he’s been sucking up to lecturers like One-O’
  10. ‘CHIPPING’
    To go somewhere. You may be chipping off to Rock Citeh, or chipping back ‘om ter yer Mams for Christmas. Eg – ‘This club is well Dezzeh and I’m clammin’ for some snap. I’m gonna chip, yer get meh?’

Monday, November 26, 2007

Kiss This

Congratulations to Duncan Hamilton, who won the William Hill Sports Book of the Year today for Provided You Don't Kiss Me, his account of being Cloughie's inside man at the Post during his time at Forest (And congratulations to LeftLion, for predicting that he'd win said award ages ago). This makes it the second Notts-related book to win the Will Hill in recent years, the other being Gary Imlach's My Father And Other Working Class Football Heroes.

When we interviewed Hamilton a few issues ago for LeftLion, he was still in a state of shock about how much interest he was getting from the book, but I can't imagine why. It's absolutely mint, even though it's not the most comfortable read for any Forest supporter looking for a comfort blanket in these more troubled times for the Tricky Trees. If you haven't read it yet, you must.

Yer GET Meh?

Post of the Week

Ta very much to the youths at postoftheweek.com for their Biggery-Uppage of May Contain Notts. And welcome to anyone swinging by from that very mint blog, even if they don't live in Hood-Town. Don't worry. We're not going to shoot you.

New columnist in LeftLion

We're building up a solid team of shit-hot columnists on the Lion at the moment. Hot on the heels of Left Brian, Left 'Pie-on and A Canadian in New Basford comes our latest column; Bar Bar Black Sheep. It's by someone I know who has worked behind loads of bars across Notts, and has a shitload of stories to tell. I have the feeling it's gonna be a very decent read...

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Ten things you won't see in Notts during Euro 2008

So, thanks to England stinking like a teenage boy's bedroom last night, there will be no Euro 2008-related tomfoolery for us next year. I was doing the LeftLion pub quiz last night, so I missed it - but I was witness to the longest sentence the Fish Man has ever said (which went along the lines of "They were fucking shit", and then mumbled a bit). When it was all over, I felt the usual feelings of loss and regret that inevitably come when England fuck it up. But then a shower of Stone Island-wearing gibbons came in, and the one with the hairstyle that looked like he'd submerged his head in a chip pan and then dragged a rake down the front of it called me 'scum' for not being there to cheer 'The Boys' on. Then I started laughing.

Just as well we're out, really, as we would have been just as shit then as we are now. But before we all do Cross of St George-like slits on our wrists, let's all calm down, take a deep breath, realise what we won't have to put up with next year, and be grateful.

1. There won't be shops selling England tat months before it happens
Seriously, they ought to call it Man-Christmas or summat. Speaking as someone who texts everyone he knows on New Year every two years with a message that goes “Yessss! It’s World Cup/Euro year! Get IN!”, even I get pissed off with non-sport shops flogging mank from March onwards. I mean, does anyone really need an England air hockey game or an England executive pen set? And I'm not even going to talk about England fish shapes or England garlic bread. Fuck that.

2. You won't see England flags everywhere
In 2002, the AA estimated that the country was wasting millions of gallons of petrol due to the drag factor caused by people strapping plastic England flags to their cars. More importantly, the RAC estimated that hundreds of thousands of cars look absolutely shit. And do they really have to have ‘England’ written on them? Have you ever seen a stars and stripes with ‘America’ on it, or a swastika bearing the legend ‘The Nazis’?

3. You won't see chatty estates looking like a big concrete garden fete
As soon as the Christmas decorations come down (March), up go the fucking England flags. Funny how the people who get the shittiest end of the stick from their own country are the most patriotic, eh? The good news is that flying a cross of St.George at home doesn’t automatically make people think you’re a racist anymore. The bad news is we still haven’t got flagpoles in our back yards, so people invariably trap ‘em in the upstairs window, which is wrong. Does the US national anthem go “Oh say does that Star-Spangled Banner yet hang out of Daz’s back bedroom?” If you’ve got your flag in your bedroom window, you can’t open the bastard during the hottest time of the year. For as long as two months. That’s minging as fuck.

4. You won't feel like you're in the Trent End circa 1982 when you're in the pub
People who moan about all-seater stadiums love international tournaments, because they can go to Walkabout or somesuch and relive the ‘good old days’. You have to get there at least an hour early to get a good spec. Then you get wedged in against a load of pissed-up twats, struggle to listen to what Gary Lineker has to say and are forced to listen to crap music for half an hour. Like the old-school experience, you get a cack view of the action whilst being swept along in a sea of humanity, having the word ‘cunt’ bellowed in your ear by some nob-end who keeps making wanker signs at a television screen. At half-time, you have to piss into an overflowing sink. Someone keeps throwing up a half-full pint pot whenever England score, there’s a hot dog stand at the back that’s in danger of being overturned, and when you leave the place there’s three police vans and an ambulance outside.

5. You won't have to deal with bell-ends standing in the middle of town after England games, showing off
In Italy or Argentina, people bomb about on scooters after games waving flags the size of Viccy Centre about, and it looks dead good. In Nottingham, Tez from Carlton hangs round the Lions with his shirt off and a flag tied round his waist, bellowing and sticking his arms out like he was at a New Model Army gig, having a go at people who are on their way to another pub for ‘not being England’. There’s a reason for that, Tez; it’s because we’re not cunts.

6. You won't have to deal with the same bell-ends singing ‘No surrender to the IRA’ in pubs for no reason whatsoever
Can someone remind me what qualifying group the IRA were in this year, please? And isn’t it funny that the twats who sing this are always the ones staggering round town on St Patricks Day with those fucking stupid Guinness hats on?

7. You won't have to deal with pubs burying themselves in a blizzard of England mank
Down comes the ‘No Football Shirts’ sign in the window. Up go loads of photos of twatty models in face paint and signs that scream ‘Watch England Games Here!’ Oh, okay then, I was just going to shut my eyes and imagine what the game would be like until you said that.

8.You won't have to put up with spacky girls in market T-shirts who don’t know what the fucking fuck is going on
I’m glad to live in a world where football is understood and appreciated by intelligent women. I just can’t stand the ones who clog up the pub in Italy crop-tops (because it’s always Italy, isn’t it? It's never Ukraine or Andorra), or T-shirts with crappily suggestive footy puns like ‘Score with me', 'I have great ball control' or 'Jizz on my tits for England'. They’re just there to cop off, argue with each other over which one’s Wayne Rooney, get bored after ten minutes, and start comparing the tattoos on their arse. Back to Jumpin' Jaks with you, trollops.

9. You won't have to sit in a pub, watching England suck harder than everyone on Forest Road after 7pm
Remember how horrible it was last year. Remember how much wrangling and bartering you did to get out of work early enough. Remember how you would sit outside a pub at noon for half an hour, so you could get a good seat. Remember the pinch-faced, expletive-laden faces of your compatriots in the pub, as the Golden Generation displayed all the finesse and flair of a dribbling post-coital dog's cock. Remember it all, and be grateful you won't have to go through it again.

10.
You won't have to cope with the inevitable misery of England getting knocked out
Yes, men do have periods. They usually come once every two years, after England go out against a proper team. All the usual symptoms are there; listlessness, an inability to be rational, general mardyness at being lied to and betrayed and a complete trashing of the living room when your partner says “Why don’t you watch Wimbledon instead?”

(PS: If only the England team had displayed the passion and commitment that this local footballer did)

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Eleventh Crack Commandment

Thanks to the only decent song on Biggie Smalls' last album, we're all au fait with the ground-rules of drug-dealing, but now, thanks to a couple of eejat bwoy from Basford, we can now add a new dictum to go with 'never getting high on your own supply' and 'don't let crackheads have tick' comes a new rule; Don't end up with your name in the Post because you stabbed someone in the eye who didn't want to buy any drugs off you, like a twat.

The NME says dead nice things about us again

...but they still haven't reviewed my Emo album yet. Bastards.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Somebody dig up the McWhirter Brothers immediately

The govermental arse-wiping process better known as ASBOs are usually not worth commenting on, but this takes the biscuit - if not the whole packet. This youth here has been barred from every pub in Notts bar five for the next five years, due to 16 incidents of unadulterated meatheadery in assorted hostelries. Every single pub in Notts minus five, as you may have already divulged, is a fucking enormous bar-out and worthy of a place in the Guinness Book of Records (the other thing that probably crossed your mind, of course, is that you must really have to hate someone if you feel the need to puncture their lung with a fork).

Obviously, in a more enlightened society, they'd display him at Goose Fair in a glass tank and charge people to watch him punch the fuck out of a crocodile or summat, but at least - according to the Post - we can all feel safer in our beds now. Which is nice. The five pubs that he is allowed to drink in must be very pleased with the publicity they're now getting. I know where my next pub crawl and informal business meeting is going to be, don't you?

Thursday, November 15, 2007

St Pancras


First the good news; for years and years and years and years and years, St Pancras was an absolute shithole. In fact, it's main purpose seemed to be to put off people from the East Midlands from ever visiting London. The first time I ever went there, when I was 14 and on a mission to buy some Jam shoes and a white Lonsdale sweatshirt like what Paul Weller had, I spent the first half an hour cowering in a toilet, reading the most horrific invitations to stand on Platform 3 at 7.30 with a copy of the Standard under me left armpit if I fancied getting me cock sucked, and discovering that the previous occupant had left his shoes, trousers, pants, and tie on the floor.

(I nicked the tie, though. It was nice)

Now, of course, all the papers are rubbing their genitals in undisguised glee over the £800m spunkage over said grot-laden station, making particular reference to the fact that Nottingham is now linked to Continental Europe (because we're always going out on the piss in Brussels and commuting to our call-centre jobs in Paris, aren't we?) However, what they fail to mention is for the 99.9999% of people who use St Pancras to get to That London, it's not all that, really.

Why? Let us count the ways;

The Journey
It's all very well being able to get to Paris in 2 hrs 15 mins, but before you can even do that, you're stuck on a train that - if you're really unlucky - stops at Leicester (our jumper-wearing crisp-devouring inbred cousins) Loughborough (which I won't have a word said against, because Chris Needham comes from there) and Luton (which demolished the only reason for going there - those massive flamingos in their local Arndale Centre - years ago). And if you're coming back, you run the risk of wasting valuable minutes of your life in the stations at Bedford (I went there once. There was a Carpet City) Market Harborough (why?), and then - just when you think you're a few minutes away from planting your feet on the Motherland, the bastards stop at Attenborough and Beeston. All you want from a service to London is to get into the fucking place as soon as possible, and back to a proper city even sooner.

The Facilities
There are only four things you need at a decent station; a pasty, a pub, a decent-sized paper shop , and somewhere to curl one off. The architects of the new St P, on the other hand, think that what we really need is a dead long champagne bar, and loads of poncy shops, which
means that you have to walk half a mile outside to get to the tube station. The nearby WH Smiths is tiny, and there isn't a requisite West Cornwall Pasty stall, so you still end up at Kings Cross station. Rubbish.

The Location
Local business-dickheads are twittering that, thanks to the new St P, Nottingham will finally achieve its dream of being part of the commuter belt. No, mate. The only way that was going to happen would be if they somehow managed to move the station five miles into the centre of London. You're still going to have to spend an hour or so with your nose under Mr Commuter-Twat's minging armpit to get wherever you need to go. You're still at the mercy of someone in Stratford bringing the entire Tube network down because he left a box of chicken on the seat. Kings Cross is still going to be a shithole.

The bogs are nice, though. They're just miles away.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Hairy Botter

Even though there's more important shit going on in Notts, it would be criminally remiss of me not to mention this story in The Sun. It's that old classic - Man Gets Bad Tattoo, With Unfortunate Consequences - with a local slant;
PROUD Paul Croft got a tattoo of Harry Potter wizard Albus Dumbledore on his back – but is now being teased by pals after he was outed as GAY.
(Notice that? He's not 'Gay' - he's 'GAY'. In MASSIVE CAPITAL LETTERS)
Proud Paul, 36, spent a YEAR having the Hogwarts headmaster etched into his skin as a surprise for his five kids.
(Notice the repetition of the word 'Proud', Media Studies students; that's shorthand for 'if you met him in the street and pointed out that he had a mystical homosexual tattooed on his back, he would pull your entire digestive system out of your mouth and strangle you with it' And yes, if my Dad had come home with a tattoo of, say, Larry Grayson when I was a nipper, it would have definitely been a 'surprise')
But the factory worker has been the butt of jokes ever since Harry Potter author JK Rowling revealed last week that Dumbledore was in love with a fellow male sorcerer. Paul, of Nottingham, moaned yesterday: “It’s been terrible. I’ve always liked Dumbledore – just not in that way.
(Jesus in a jumpsuit, it's come to something when a man can use a national newspaper to point out that he doesn't want to have bum-sex with a wizard in a kid's book. I'm going to ask the Daily Mirror to tell the world that I don't really want to have it off with the fox who played Maid Marion in the Disney film, even though I cut out a photo of her and slept with it when I was four)
“I went into work and everyone was sniggering. “When I walked in, one of the lads said, ‘Oi, Paul – heard about Dumbledore?’ “There were wisecracks about ‘Watch your backs, lads.’ Someone asked me if I was planning to get a tattoo of Graham Norton. I thought, ‘Why me?’ ”
(Here's where I have total sympathy for the poor sod. I worked in a factory in Hucknall once, and the bitchiness would have put the entire cast of Queer As Folk to shame. There was one lad there who had a divorce, and every time he cocked up over the slightest thing, the entire factory would shout "NO WONDER 'IS FOO-KIN' MISSUS PISSED OFF!" Another youth was due in court one dinnertime after a fight outside a chippy, and when he came in for the morning shift, the first thing he saw was an enormous blackboard with the odds of his sentence chalked up - from 'Community Service' at 3-1 to 'The Electric Chair' at 1000-1. These people are the kings of bitching. The moment that JK Rowling outed Dumbledore, some of the blokes in that factory would have been clubbing themselves into unconsciousness on Saturday afternoon to get the weekend over as quickly as possible)
The huge £500 tattoo shows Dumbledore holding a scroll bearing the names of his Harry Potter mad children – Charlotte, Deanna, Brandon, Tamzin and Paris. Paul said: “It seemed like a good idea at the time."
(No, mate; spending £500 - FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS - to deface your back with the 21st Century Ali Bongo wouldn't be a good idea even if you sealed every window in your house, filled your fireplace with crack, and stoked it up all weekend. Especially when you decide to embellish it with a permanent reminder of your progressively worsening taste in kids' names. In GangstaFont.)

And shame on whatever Picture Editor chose an image of him with his hands in such an unfortunate position. Tsk.

Friday, October 19, 2007

The End Of An Era


The Variety in Radford has shut down, quite possibly for good.

Although it wasn't to everyone's taste - it was like walking into the 70s, and the entertainment was decidedly un-right-on - The Variety was proper Notts, and fucking hilarious. I was absolutely gagging for my mates from London to come and visit, so I could take them for a concentrated dollop of purest Nottingham - and whether you liked it or not, it was far more representative of Nottingham culture than a thousand bought-in art galleries. And if you didn't go, you'll never know.

As far as I know, LeftLion was the only publication to do a proper interview with the people who ran the place. And here it is.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Don't ask for a Party Bag


Sorry this is a bit late in the day, but I've just got round to watching HIV & Me, Steven Fry's documentary about attitudes to AIDS. Here's a transcript of a scene where he's been talking to Gay lads in Manchester about how complacent people are getting about it...

STEVEN FRY (VO): I find that all rather depressing, but little do I know that Gordon has saved the most worrying for last. He’s known Mark for years, and assures me that what I’m about to hear is true…

MARK: I’ve got a friend. Er, he’s been to a party in Nottingham, er, where there was a 19 year-old lad, he was Negative, and he wanted to be given ‘the Gift’.

STEVEN FRY: ‘the Gift’?

MARK: They’re called ‘Gift Givers’. People with HIV.

STEVEN FRY: Good God…

MARK: …and there were five Positive guys who had sex with the Negative lad, to Poz him up, and, um…

STEVEN FRY: ‘Poz him up'?

MARK: Yeah. They all had sex with him unprotected to give him ‘the Gift’. He wasn’t held down, he wasn’t forced, he willingly…

STEVEN FRY: So your friend was one of these five who, who shagged him…

MARK: Yeah.

STEVEN FRY: Can you have any insight into…why he wanted to…he thought it was a badge of honour, or…?

MARK: I have no idea, to be honest. I mean, a lot of lads these days…a lot of lads like unprotected sex…

GORDON: Yeah but of course, you know what happened at the end…

STEVEN FRY: What?

MARK: Yeah. When they finished having sex with him, they inserted a butt plug into him to make sure that none of the semen came out of him. To make sure that he definitely…

STEVEN FRY: My God…that…I’m sorry, that is very odd…

MARK: It is. It’s horrible.

ME: (hands over eyes, trying to slide down the side of the sofa)

Monday, October 08, 2007

10 Reasons Why Nobbing Off The Night Bus Service Is Another Stupid Idea By Whatever Greedy Mingebag Lead Paint-Licking Gibbons Run This Town

(Story here)

1) If you didn't happen to live within walking distance from town and happened to be around after hours - you know, enjoying the benefits of this 24-hour city we're supposed to be living in - the Night Bus was a life-saver. I used to live in Top Valleh, and would be in the Social at 2.50am, knowing that if I left in 5 minutes, I would be at the top of my street in 20 minutes whilst saving £8 by not having my wallet anally raped by a cabbie.

2) It allowed the hundreds of people who work late in town - either in bars, clubs or call centres - the opportunity to get home reasonably quickly without having to deal with a taxi queue full of pissheads ramming kebabs into their maws and on the verge of fighting with their own reflections.

3) It was an illicit thrill to get on a bus with its own bouncer. Like being on the subway in Times Square and seeing a Guardian Angel, albeit one in an NCT jumper that was getting stuck into his snap tin and talking to the driver about going piking at the weekend.

4) For many people, it was the last opportunity to get your end away before the night was over (because, c'mon - if you've pulled in town, you're never going to take them home on the fucking Night Bus. You might as well tell them that they've got to be quiet when they get there, so as not to wake your Mam up).

5) The fact that the only person who ever pulled on the night bus was the driver, who always seemed to have some bird hanging over the counter, waiting for him to get to the Bulwell turnaround so he could give her, well, a Bulwell turnaround.

6) The one driver on our route that looked a bit like Cockney Wanker, who once stopped midway through a speech to a full bus about how they could use a City Rider to say to some twat who was chelping him; "Look youth, I'm trying to tell yoh summat fookin' useful. So shut yoh fooking pan and stop looking at that gel's tits, yoh cunt" to rapturous applause.

7) The way the staff and passengers refused point-blank to tolerate mouth-breathers playing shit Grime tunes on mobiles and weed-smoking in a way that is sadly lacking on normal bus services.

8) Standing in town at 4am in January, freezing your bollocks off, and almost dropping to your knees in relief at the sight of a warm bus, signifying that in a very short time you will be ripping through the contents of your fridge in your pants and thinking "Fuck working tomorrow".

9) No-one cared if you were partaking in a tray of fishcake, chips and peas. Even when you tipped the tray into your mouth and used your fork to shovel in the batter bits.

10) It was absolute comedy listening to people recount their night out, like an Alan Sillitoe novel come to life. How this bloke got noshed off by someone's Nana in a leather mini-skirt in Jumpin' Jaks. How that slag is gonna get panned next time she looks at Darren. How Tez had to piss the sick off his shoes so he could get into Flares. NCT should have cut a deal with Sky and had the Night Bus Channel.

Yeah, so there's going to be a bigger service - but only at the weekend. Big deal. OK, so only 8.5 people were riding the Night Bus on average (presumably the other half of the last one had lost his torso in a fight outside Bar Ha Ha) - get some of them limos that bell-ends hire out, then. And am I being hopelessly naive, but aren't public services supposed to lose money when they provide a valuable service? Isn't that what we pay taxes for?

This Bloke In A Burned-Out Car In Wollaton Business...

...gets dodgier and dodgier. Bad enough that people in Wollaton have to deal with a car catching fire while they're trying to have their tea. Even worse when it turns out to have a Dad of eight from Leicester inside. Far worse when it turns out he was stabbed beforehand. And outright bonkers when you read this;
It has now emerged Mr Chenia was jailed for 20 years following a fraud trial at Nottingham Crown Court in November 1998 and a drugs trial at Leicester Crown Court in April 1999.

The trial at Leicester heard he used Kingstand Golf Club in Leicester Forest East, as a cover for a £230,000 Class A drug dealing operation.

The court heard a police surveillance operation led to a 90-kilo seizure of drugs including heroin, cocaine, cannabis, amphetamine and ecstasy concealed in ditches and hedges across the nine-hole course.

Players at the course were unaware of further drug stashes buried under the course fairways and greens.

Christ on a crisp packet. As everyone knows, nothing beats a decent walk around a golf course and swinging a club about while you've got a spliff on. Imagine being on that course, taking a massive divot out on a bad swing - and finding a big fuck-off bag of weed. I propose right bastard well now that if they want to make golf more interesting for a televisual audience, they hide loads of drugs on golf courses and make players take whatever they find if they accidentally uncover them.

[Postscript: funny how Lee Westwood and Tiger Woods chipped in with
this almost immediately after]

Saturday, October 06, 2007

Gooseh

The best time of the week to go to Goose Fair is definitely Friday afto. You can actually walk about with your nephew without being whacked in the head by some sucky woman holding up a pushchair, there's very little in the way of teet'-sucking mouth-breathers, and you feel that, being in a fair on a school day, you're pissing in the face of the world. Here's some pics I took...

One of the few things about the new Gooseh that I approve of is the lack of chronic spelling mistakes. Back in the day, you couldn't move without being exhorted to try some 'PIPPING HOT PEES' or a 'TOFFE APPUL'. This was the only typo I spotted. Well done, everybody.

Goose Fair hasn't been the same since that hostile Disney takeover a few years ago.

"Mam! MAM! They're LYNCHING THE MUPPETS!"

This bloke is definitely worth a visit if you're going tonight. He fries up dead thinly sliced potatoes for a quid, and they are skill. He used to call them 'Crips', as they're a cross between chips and crisps, but I'm guessing it was pointed out that he was glorifying American gang culture. Or maybe the Bloods got the arse. Or summat.

OK, I've teased you enough. Time to get my peas on. If you're Proper Notts, you know there's only one place to get the peas in - that place in the top corner who do nothing but peas. My Mam used to work there in the sixties, and said it was the best fiddle in the fair for both the owner and the staff. ONE POUND AND TWENTY FUCKING PENCE, people. But sod it - I defy anyone who calls themselves a Nottinghamian not to look at that photo and not have a multiple orgasm of the taste buds...

If you've already read this, you'll know of my distain for Goose Fair's eschewing of gnomes with lucky bingo beans, Scottish giants who could step over Minis, local folk punching each other in the face for entertainment and MaaseTaan in its quest to be a poor man's Alton Towers. In fact, there's only one concession to old-school freakshowery - that big trailer van near the public bogs. I'd been in before, so I wasn't arsed. But me nephew saw this;

...and demanded we went in, so we could be systematically lied to by an ET doll in a jar...

Some bits picked up off a building site...

and - oh, for fuck's sake...

After picking up the usual paraphenalia (toffee apples, cinder tuffeh, overpriced balloon, etc), May Contain Notts's nephew said "Thank you very much for the greatest day of my life". Awr. Which makes it sound like he's been imprisoned in a cupboard for the past six years. My thoughts;

1) It's definitely not as big as it used to be.
2) If they tried not to rip people off so much, there's be about three times more people there.
3) Seeing as we've got a massive Square again, they should hold a more old-school fair there at the same time for the kids
4) I need to go back tonight for some more peas.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Factory Fodder

Sorry, but I just can't work up any excitement whatsoever about Control, the Joy Division film that was mainly shot in Nottingham. OK, so local actors getting work is brilliant, but it strikes me as horribly ironic that Broadway has put on a gala night to celebrate the fact that someone in a production company drove to Lenton, formed a square with their thumbs and index fingers, and said "Yeah, this place looks like the kind of depressing shithole where Ian Curtis would hang himself".

Are You Going To Gooo-ooo-ooose Fair? Elvis Mirrors, Nuggit And Peas...

(Apologies to Simon and Garfunkel)

Obviously, the big event of the week in Nottingham is the return of Goose Fair. I've not been yet, so I'll refrain from making comments about how rubbish it is/not as mint as it used to be/the extortionate price of the peas until I do.

Until then, may I direct your attention to a series of pieces I wrote for LeftLion a few years ago about the things which made Gooseh such a brilliant thing;

Intro

Mousetown
A relic from the days when looking at rodents in a glass tank was the height of culture and sophistication in Notts

Elvis Mirrors
The King lives. On student bedsit walls, in charity shops and in your Auntie's attic

Scream If You Want To Go Faster Man
A tale of dreams denied and hopes a-crushed, set to a soundtrack of Racey and Gary Glitter

Saddam Assassin
KILL THE BASTARD!

The Snake Woman of Bombay
The erotic splendour of a bored secretary from Bulwell earning a bit of Xmas money by pissing about with a snake

The Giant From Scotland
He could step over a Mini, you know

Gordon the Gnome
He could walk under a Mini. Alright, maybe he couldn't

The Boxing Booth
Old-school fist-on-face action, watched by deranged old dear with a brolly

Goldfish
The ultimate prize. Until they died the next morning.

Dads with faces like smacked arses
Goosey-hating Enemies of the People

Outdoor Bingo
The Sport of Mams

Being warned by your Nana not to go on a Saturday night
Mouth-pursing warnings of Apocalypse by the Cakewalk